Only Human
by BeautyWithinTheBeasts
Summary: John has left for Afghanistan. Sherlock has been left lonely and without a flat mate. But when he meets a young police officer with just as much brain as him he feels a distinctive pull towards her. Claire Bennett could be a real help to him and she might just be able to make Sherlock human again.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hey, guys! So we know some of you have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of this story and so have we! Truth is we never really told you on our other accounts what this story was going to be about. I guess we just really didn't want to spoil any of the surprise!**_

_** We decided very early on in the writing process that we would divide up who wrote what chapter based on the POV stance of that chapter. Lady Gisborne 15 (a.k.a Ariana) will write for Sherlock, and lightinside (a.k.a Jillian) will write for our OC.**_

_** We cannot tell you how absolutely excited we are for this story and for being given the chance to write alongside each other for so many of our amazing readers! We hope to see some familiar faces, and some new ones along the way!**_

_** Finally, we just hope that you will enjoy our very first collaboration story "Only Human".**_

_** Disclaimer: We own nothing, except for our lovely OC. Everything else belongs to the BBC and to the amazing Steven Moffatt, Mark Gatiss, and Benedict Cumberbatch.**_

_**XxxxXXxxXXxxXXxx**_

Sherlock Holmes stood in the window that looked out over Baker Street, watching the cab that held his former flat mate sitting idle at the curb. He could faintly make out, through the duskiness of night fast-approaching, that John was waving a hand against the smudgy window of the car, but he did not return the gesture. He just stood there, watching with eyes that never seemed to blink as the cab began to move. And then, it got lost amongst London's busy traffic.

The flat was quiet. Sherlock couldn't help but notice this simple fact as he turned away from the window and set his lips into a thin line.

"Well of course it's quiet, you prat," he muttered to himself, "What did you expect? John to leave and you to become one of those drunk and rowdy bachelors?" Though, if he was being completely honest Sherlock could go for a drink, something that could fill his ears with drumming, if only to take away that damned silent!

He picked up his violin a bit too abruptly, his fingers quickly finding their place along its slender neck and masterfully tucking it under his chin. Sherlock brought the bow across the strings and he began to play. It was a soft melody at first, for he really couldn't even hear himself play. He was far too busy thinking. About John. About his leaving. About how he would need to find a new flatmate, though that idea didn't sit quite right in his stomach. The idea of someone coming and filling John's spot almost seemed to be betrayal. But no, that bastard had left and would be gone for months, perhaps years. Just left, abandoned him. Who the hell was he supposed to find to help him in his cases now?

Just then, Sherlock heard a knock on his door. It broke through his muddled thoughts like the crack of a whip. "Come," he commanded in his deep, baritone voice. Mrs. Hudson entered, holding a tea tray in her small but capable hands.

"I just thought I'd bring you a spot of tea, dear, after all of this. Terrible thing, John just up and leaving you like that." Sherlock didn't reply, just tossed the violin aside and plopped down into his chair, knees hugged to his chest and his arms wrapped firmly around his legs. Mrs. Hudson spoke again. "Don't you think, dear? Sherlock!"

The detective turned to her. If looks could kill, his certainly would have and Mrs. Hudson held up her hands in surrender. "Very well then, I'm just sayin' it wasn't nice for John to leave his partner all alone for God knows how long!"

"Mrs. Hudson, please don't bore me with your useless chatter. John and I were in no relationship."

"If it suits you, dear, but you know, I find it hard to believe you two were only friends."

Sherlock smirked then. Had John been his friend? Yes, he would have said so. Granted, probably his _only _friend. That had meant something special to him, buried underneath his hard exterior. Then, he wiped the small grin off his lips and sighed.

"Mrs. Hudson, please. Go clean something." He shooed his hands towards the door.

"Not your housekeeper, dear," the landlady put in, as had become a habit of yours. She turned and walked to the door only to stop once more. "Sherlock-" she was met by a groan from the man as he buried his head in his arms. "Just one more question. I promise." There was no sound and so she took that as a go-ahead. "Are you alright?"

His head shot up so fast it startled her. "Alright?" He scoffed. "Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?" He didn't know if he reassured her, but he certainly didn't reassure himself. _God. _These infuriating emotions and thoughts. He had to get rid of them. Unconsciously, his fingers brushed through the lengthy curls on his head, at a foolish attempt to do just that.

"Well, fine then, Sherlock. But your violin sounded awfully angry. I haven't heard it sound like that in a long time." And then, before he could so much as open his mouth, she was out the door and the room and the room was once again empty. Besides him.

He glanced over across from him at John's armchair. Correction. What _had_ _been_ John's armchair. Now it was just a chair, worn, unloved, and insignificant like everything else. Sherlock swallowed and shook his head. He practically leapt out of his chair, so on edge was he, and began to frantically pace the room.

Silence had never bothered him before, but now, with the knowledge that he was alone, yet again, it burned a hole into his head and heart. He wanted to scream, to run, to fall upon the floor and throw a tantrum like a child. It wouldn't be the first time. After all, John had made him cease many of his tantrums.

A beep resounded. It seemed to echo in the emptiness around him and he fumbled for his phone, hands digging in the pockets of his robe. Could it be...? Was John texting to say that he had reconsidered the whole venture and was coming back?

He grabbed at the mobile and flipped it open.

** - 1 New Text Message –**

With bated breath he opened up the message and his heart instantly fell. It wasn't John. It was that buffoon of an Inspector.

**Found a body. Could use your help.**

** -L**

Sherlock supposed he could've been more upset that it hadn't been Watson messaging him, but then again, a case would be the perfect thing to help him get his mind off of this whole messy situation. So, he quickly responded.

**Where?**

** -SH**

He closed his eyes and waited for the response. As it always did, his blood curdled deliciously with the prospect of a new crime to solve. His mind palace roared to life inside his thick skull, shaking off the dust that had been deposited there by his despondent thoughts. His body became taut with a combination of tension, anxiety, and excitement. He loved that feeling. The feeling that only a good murder could bring him.

His phone buzzed again.

**49 Chiswell St on the corner of Chiswell and Silk. The Jugged Hare.**

** -L**

Sherlock quickly threw the robe from his shoulders and rushed to the coat rack by the door. His fingers fondly grasped at his coat as he pulled it over his arms. He tied the black scarf tightly around his neck and pocketed both his mobile and a pair of gloves. Then, Sherlock opened the door and practically bounded down the stairs, nearly running over Mrs. Hudson as he came to the bottom.

"Sherlock, what's the matter? Where have you gotten yourself off to now?"

"A case, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock beamed as he grabbed the woman by the arms and placed a quick peck to her cheeks. "A real, genuine murder!"

She couldn't help but laugh along, her voice trying to sound scolding. "Show some respect, dear. It's a murder. Poor soul." But her eyes betrayed how happy she was for the detective to have something to distract himself from the phenomenon that was John Watson. And without another word, Sherlock raced out of 221B Baker Street and hailed a cab.

"49 Chiswell Street, and step on it," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. How could cases like this really affect him? He was like a child at Christmas time, trying to keep a grin from surfacing upon his lips.

All along the way his mind focused and unfocused on John. That empty seat beside him should have been filled by his friend. The two of them should be going to the case together. Sherlock always loved it when John complimented his level of intellect during what he called the "debriefing stage" of solving the crime. And sometimes, John would surprise him and offer a piece of information that Sherlock had just _somehow _forgotten.

But then, he managed to just shove Doctor Watson from his mind and focus on the job at hand. Thoughts and ideas spun around in his head, anxiously awaiting the actual view of the body. Gender. Nationality. _Species. _Murder weapon. Victim's clothing. Employment. All means to the end. That's what they all were, and Sherlock could find them very easily.

The cab stopped and he opened the door, stopping once to pay the driver his fare. Then, he stuffed his hands into his pocket and blocked out the annoying sound of people scurrying about. Police had previously taped off the area. That was good. No need to have civilians where they shouldn't. The red and blue lights whirled and flashed. It was dark by now, giving them even more strength and threatening to blind Sherlock before he even made it to the door.

"'Bout time you made it 'ere," he was met by the snippy tone of Donovan and tried to conceal a scowl. God, he hated this woman. "Lestrade's been waitin'."

"You forget that it's rush hour," Sherlock responded in just as snippy a voice as he ducked beneath the police tape, "In the middle of London. How fast did you think I would get here?"

Instead of answering, the woman just ignored him and walked. "This way." And she led him into what was known as The Jugged Hare.

It appeared to be a London bar, a very neat place, but kind of tucked away, a rarity in the City of London. She swept him quickly through the front room to the back, where there was an opened door that apparently looked to lead to a basement. She didn't wait to see if he was following her as she proceeded down the stairs.

"Freak's here," she called out and then was gone to a completely separate side of the basement, as if she wanted nothing to do with Sherlock, which was probably true anyway.

"Ah, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted warmly, a bit strange considering they were standing in the middle of a crime scene. He held out his hand which Sherlock took and then quickly released, once again stuffing his hands into his pockets. The Detective Inspector cocked his head and wondered if perhaps it was just him, but Sherlock seemed different today, quieter, if that was even possible. "Has John left yet?"

Sherlock seemed to stiffen then but gave a curt nod, nonetheless. "Yes, he has. Off on a cab, never to return."

If Lestrade wasn't wrong, he might've sensed a touch of bitterness in the man's voice. Shaking the ridiculous thought away he smiled softly. "Now, Sherlock, he did say that he wouldn't be gone forever."

"He also didn't say when he'd be back." Then, Sherlock sniffed as a sign that the conversation was over and that there was business to intent to. "Now, where is this body you spoke of?"

"Right this way." Lestrade turned and walked through a small and thin door frame. The fact that there was no door upon the hinges was what Sherlock almost instantly noticed. When he bent down lower he found that there were still shards of wood stuck in between the hinges that looked as if they too would come off the door frame at any moment. He mentally stored that information away for another time.

"Sherlock," the other man called, "This is Claire Bennett from the Police. She's just down here to see to it that everything appears in order."

Without even looking up from the hinges, Sherlock waved a hand. "Get her out of here."

"Sherlock," Lestrade tried to reason, "She is just doin' her job."

"And consider it a mercy that I still allow you in here," Sherlock retorted with a glare.

Lestrade licked his lips while Sherlock went back to inspecting the hinges upon the door frame. The Inspector walked over to the woman who was kneeling beside the body, a camera in one hand and a notepad in the other. "I'm sorry, miss, but I'm afraid you'll have to be leaving."

The woman didn't even look up from her work as she asked in a voice that portrayed that she was more involved in her work than in the conversation at hand at the moment, "Leave? Why would I do that?"

"Well, you see," Lestrade tried to explain, "There's a man down here, a man that we call down only when we are in need of help. He finds the things that no one else can seem to find. And we need him. So, you will have to leave."

She chuckled wryly. "I'm sorry, but I too have a job to do. Pictures to take, paperwork to get typed up. I need a paycheck at the end of the week, same as you. I don't know who this man is but you can tell him to bugger off."

Lestrade bent lower and said in a soft whisper, "Wish I could, but you see, the man is -"

"Sherlock Holmes," the man himself interrupted as he stared down upon the kneeling woman. Normally his eyes would have been drawn to the dead body first before anything else, but this woman truly was being an absolute hassle. He didn't even offer his hand to her.

"You're Sherlock Holmes? _The _Sherlock Holmes?"

"There is only one, yes."

She smiled slightly up at him. "Well, I understand how you might want me to leave so I don't interrupt you and your – what do you call it – your mind castle?"

"Palace," he rudely interrupted.

"Whatever," she rolled her eyes, "But I've got a job that needs doing. So I'll be staying, thank you very much, _sir_."

Sherlock wanted to scream at the likes of this exasperating woman. If John's departure wasn't bad enough, now he had her to deal with! And this crime scene had only supposed to make him feel better, not leave his body full of so much tension he feared he would snap.

"Fine," he grumbled as he too knelt to the ground, "But if this operation goes down because I couldn't think properly, it'll be on your head."

"I think I can handle the consequences." And there was that insufferable smile again. The one that was too cheery to be cheery. It was false and he knew it. She gave a single shake to her head, tossing her shoulder-length brown hair before settling back down to taking pictures of the corpse.

_Ah, right. The corpse_, Sherlock seemed to suddenly remember. He looked over the body. She was a woman that much was obvious. She lay on her back, one leg tucked under the other and an arm resting above her chest.

"Who found her?"

"One of the workmen said he came down here looking for supplies. He was in quite a shock when he called."

"I bet he was." The scene really was quite gruesome. The woman's top was nearly all but torn to shreds, hanging limply upon her bluish-pale body. Prostitute was the first thing that came to Sherlock's mind by the way she was dressed. Short skirt, fishtail stockings, and an indecipherable shirt that looked really gaudy in material.

"Do you think she's a prostitute?" Lestrade seemed to voice the thoughts in Sherlock's head.

"Perhaps, but perhaps not -"

"She's not," came a curt tone that Sherlock had almost forgotten was even there. He turned sharply to the woman.

"And why not, Ms. Bennett?"

She scoffed. "And you call yourself a detective. It's quite obvious really. Her shoes. They're pumps. If she were a prostitute she would've worn heels, four, maybe five inches tall. She's dressed nice, so that means she was goin' out. She would've chosen pumps only because she would want to be comfortable doing whatever it is she was going to do."

"So, what? Shopping, getting a drink with friends?"

"Clubbing."

Sherlock nodded his head and looked back down at the body, trying to hide his smirk. This woman had a mouth, but she was certainly smart, that much he could give her. "And how do you know all of this?"

Claire shrugged. "Elementary." That's when Sherlock nearly couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his lips as he ducked his head to hide the infernal reaction. She had said that one word so like him. With a voice that was dull and spoke waves of boredom. As if this was all merely child's play. Which it was.

"And what else can you see, Ms. Bennett?" He lifted his eyes to hers once more, his voice having lost some of its cold edge.

She smirked. "Plenty," came her confident response. "But I would prefer I see the great Sherlock Holmes at work." She quirked her eyebrow and then snapped another picture with her camera. "Considerin' I already solved where she was going that night."

He nodded his head. "Very well then. My guess is that she was a waitress who worked here, or perhaps, more likely, a bar hand, judging from the overpowering scent of liquor on her clothing." Sherlock then leaned down and gently sniffed at her mouth, "But her lips smell nothing like alcohol. So, she serves drinks, but doesn't drink on the job. Now," he said, not even stopping to take a breath, "Onto the cause of death itself. Blunt force trauma. Anyone can see that by the significant welt on the side of her head. She was smacked against the wall where her skull was crushed, probably internal bleeding."

"But why kill her?" Lestrade asked, only for Sherlock to raise a quick hand.

"Quiet." The man closed his eyes for a moment and then smirked. _Perfect_. "It's really very..." he turned to Ms. Bennett and smirked, "Elementary, dear Lestrade. There was a struggle."

"How can you tell that?" The Detective asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The door, obviously."

"The _door_?" Lestrade asked with a confused look that Sherlock thought made him look quite like the stupid ape that he was. "Sherlock, what door?"

"'What door?' Precisely, Lestrade. There is no door. It was clearly ripped from its hinges, as is evidenced from the loose quality of the hinges themselves and the fragments of wood still remaining in them. This woman must have known someone was following her. She came down to the basement. Knowing that there would be a window in this room," he stopped to glance up at the window that was a bit too high for the young woman to reach, "She barged in through the door, hard enough that she ripped it from the hinges. They were weak anyway and needed to be replaced."

Claire looked at him. "But where is the door, then?"

"Well, the killer removed it, of course." Sherlock glanced at her.

"Removed it? Why would he do such a thing?" She furrowed her brow.

"And here I was thinking you were the clever one," he scolded, earning a rather frustrated sigh – no, more like a growl – from the woman kneeling beside him. He smirked and pointed to the door frame. "The fact that the killer removed the door is very important. Why do you think that is, Ms. Bennett?"

She sat in thought for a moment, her tongue sticking out between her lips and her eyes suddenly vacant as her mind whirled through all of the possible means. Then, she smiled proudly. "It means that he didn't want us to find out that there was a struggle. That she had been running for her life. He didn't want us to discover that he had been chasing her."

"Exactly," Sherlock replied, trying to hide the fact that he was impressed and pleased by this girl's startling intellect. She was not necessarily the type that looked as if she would be incredibly smart. That is if you could tell how intellectual someone was just by their physical appearance.

Claire cocked her head to the side, calculating the evidence in her mind. "So..." she started slowly, "She was running for her life. The killer threw her against the wall. He must have been a rapist." This time, her tone sounded definitive.

"It would seem so, Ms. Bennett," Sherlock solemnly nodded his head and then looked up at the Detective Inspector. "But, Lestrade, I can certainly say that the killer never intended to kill this woman."

"And what makes you say that?"

He sighed in exasperation. "Because," he drawled in a careless tone, "The whole thing screams unintentional."

"How so?"

Another sigh and then Sherlock looked to Claire yet again. "Ms. Bennett, would you care to enlighten this poor, ignorant soul?" He didn't know why he kept asking for this woman's input, but he supposed it was because he was full of curiosity about just how smart she could be.

The woman frowned. "Just because he's slow doesn't mean he's ignorant."

"I think it does."

"Well, that's the difference between you and me, isn't it, Mr. Holmes?"

Despite himself, Sherlock found that he was smirking. "Indeed, it is, Ms. Bennett. Now enlighten him."

Claire huffed and then stood to her feet. "I don't take orders from anyone except my boss. Good day. See ya later, Lestrade." And then she moved to leave, her notebook in one hand and her camera in the other.

"Alright then," Sherlock called after her, "If I must be the one to explain everything -" Sherlock sighed and the woman stopped. Her skin itched with the need to speak, to show Sherlock that she knew just as much as he did. She more than wanted it. She_ needed _to show him up. But he was merely goading her into it, she knew this.

Nevertheless, she seemed to turn around, completely against her own will, and raise her head, eyes flashing defiantly. "If you insist, then, Mr. Holmes." She walked up to the body. "The killer didn't mean to kill the girl. He intended to rape her, but inexperience is written all over this case. For one, any man seasoned in the act of rape would never do so within a restaurant, especially with all of the security cameras watching their every move. He, furthermore, allowed the girl to lead him down into the basement. It could've easily been a trap." She took a breath and knocked a stray hair behind her ear. "Once she went into this room, she had nowhere else to go. He grabbed her. She struggled, perhaps screamed. He threw her against the wall and, accidentally, the blow was hard enough that he cracked her skull. He knew that any sign of a struggle could ultimately point to a rape. Probably wasn't even thinking properly. If this was his first try at it, how would we ever know it was him? Anyway...would you like to continue Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock had never thought she would be able to carry the explanation this far. He was amazed and yet a little annoyed that she had stolen away much of the only enjoyable part of this job, his showing off.

He nodded his head in mere thanks. "Yes, thank you." His clipped tone spoke. "Ms. Bennett has been right so far. The killer was clearly on his first try. And he was so frightened that he did everything in his power to cover his tracks. He removed the door. Foolish, really, since it was child's play figuring that out. Furthermore, I guarantee if you look at the security footage, you may not be able to see his face, but you will be able to deduce his stature, weight, and possible hair color, something to provide us with a sketch. But, really, you won't need any of that, because you have the fingerprints." He knelt down next to the body again and help up her wrist, turning it ever so slightly so that Lestrade could see the faint purplish-black haze of bruises on her upper arm. "I doubt he was smart enough to wipe away the place where he grabbed her. You should be able to scan the prints and find him in half a stride."

"Very good," Lestrade nodded his head, "But in case the fingerprints don't check out, could you give me any more information on the killer."

"You're more than likely looking for a younger fellow, late teens to early twenties, still impressionable and easy enough to be frightened." Lestrade looked shocked, not because of the information, but because it was Claire who had spoken. "Now, if you'll excuse me," the woman added, "I have to file a report to the office before morning." Then, she was gone.

Lestrade stood and watched her thoughtfully. "Extraordinary woman, don't you think, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" The man responded, trying to act as if he hadn't noticed.

"Oh, come on," Lestrade argued, "She very nearly has the same brains as you. Best not tell Donovan, she'll have someone else to be callin' 'freak'."

Sherlock, still acting as if he was ignoring everything that the Detective Inspector was saying, left the room without so much as a word.

Another crime, a children's riddle really, solved by Sherlock Holmes.

_**XxxxxXXxxXXxxXXxx**_

_** We hope you all enjoyed the first chappie! Let us know what you thought in the reviews!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hi guys! Wow! Ariana and I are so thrilled over the response we have gotten thus far, considering how busy everyone is with school/work, etc. This project has been a long time coming. And while we haven't worked out a definite schedule for updates, we will update each week with a new chapter. **_

_**Also, before you begin reading, keep in mind that while Ariana will be writing for Sherlock, I will be writing for Claire. The points of view will alternate with each chapter, so Ariana's work will be coming your way next week! I hope you all enjoy chapter two!**_

_**-lightinside**_

* * *

><p>Claire Bennett exited The Jugged Hare with a satisfied smirk still playing on her lips. So <em>that<em> was Sherlock Holmes. From the brief and quite exhilarating time she'd spent with him, a whole of five or six minutes, she had discovered several things about the detective. First, that he was good. _Very _good, just like she'd heard. And she didn't know whether that irritated or thrilled her. At least there was someone else. Someone who was smarter than the rest of the world.

All her six years as a part of the task force, and she'd never once met someone who could make heads or tails of a crime scene. Took the poor bastards weeks, sometimes several months, to solve something like this. Something so easy. _Elementary_.

But Claire also saw that Sherlock Holmes was not a humble man. And being too proud of your own image, too haughty, that got people killed. Her partner had been that way. Killed in action. Jumped the gun too early, _literally_. And she knew that if Sherlock didn't start taking precautions and stop flirting with the dark side, she knew that he would end up like that, too.

Not that she was worried for him. Because she wasn't.

"Claire!" Sally Donovan called out for her just as she was ducking under the tape. "Let me ask you somethin'."

Claire tried to hide her distaste. She wondered if anyone liked Sally, _really_. Besides Anderson. And she was pretty sure that he only liked Sally when he was horny. "Hmm?"

"Freak in there. He solve the thing?"

Immediately, Claire knew who Donovan was referring to. And she didn't like it, not at all.

"I'm sure I don't know who you're talking about." Claire shot back, keeping the venom out of her voice with much effort.

"The _Holmes_ fellow." Sally clarified, crossing her arms. "The freak."

Claire bit her tongue. There were so many things she wanted to say to Sally, so many things that she'd been harboring in her arsenal of insults for far too long now. Things that she wouldn't actually feel bad for saying aloud. Of course, word would go round that she had a temper and that would be detrimental to her agreement with Lestrade. No one would work with her, the overly invested _woman_ investigator with a brain. _God forbid_.

"Right. Him." Claire forced the words out of her mouth. "What about him?"

"Stay away from him, yeah? He's trouble." Sally told her, none too discreetly. Her voice was raised in a way that made Claire think that she _wanted _people to hear. "Psychopath in the making, if you ask me."

"But I _didn't_ ask you, Sally." Claire snapped. The young woman had reached her limit. Keeping her hate for Donovan under wraps was too much effort. "And psychopath is a bit of a stretch, even for you. Screaming genius, maybe. But, honestly, Sally, I'd have thought you had more class than that." Claire threw a pointed look at Anderson who was only just surfacing from the bar. "Then again, you probably never did."

Without giving Donovan the time to form a coherent response, Claire ducked under the police tape and strode off without another word.

Claire knew what she'd done, but it was too late to take it back now. She'd made quite the scene, standing up to Sally like that. But she wasn't like the rest of the spectators there. She had a backbone and there were moments like the one that had just transpired where she put it to good use. There was no reason for pretending to like Sally, not anymore. Not that Claire could think of, anyway. Her use to the Yard would end soon, no doubt, and she would be on her way back to her desk job, the job that she knew she was much too smart for anyway.

With a weary sigh, Claire crossed the nearly vacant street. It was dark out and very chilly. All she wanted to do was head home and put on the kettle so that she could settle into an armchair with a book. But there was always something. Something that got in the way of her much needed break from the outside world.

And tonight, as it turned out, that something was Lestrade.

Claire's phone began to buzz in her pocket, startling her out of her thoughts with enough force to make her flinch. Muttering a curse, she shoved her hand into her pocket and brought out her mobile before answering.

"Yeah?"

"Did you leave already?" Mingled with Lestrade's voice on the other end of the line, she could hear the sound of car doors shutting and engines starting. Everyone was vacating the scene.

"Didn't feel the need to stay." Claire told him quietly. "Did you catch the guy yet?"

"Just like you said. Young, impressionable, scared as hell." Lestrade, if Claire knew him well enough, sounded quite pleased with her. "That was good work, y'know."

"Comes with the job."

"We both know it's more than that, Claire."

Claire stopped walking and looked skyward, knowing she was going to regret even asking this question… "What do you want, Lestrade?"

"Your help. Between you and Sherlock we could -"

"No." She cut him off before he could finish his sentence. There was no way she would be working with Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much she admired his work. No way in hell. "He's reckless. Genius, but he doesn't have a filter, Lestrade. He -"

"Flirts with danger." Lestrade had heard it many times before. The Detective Inspector sighed heavily, "I know, Claire. But he's _good_."

"Doesn't matter." Claire shot back, glancing around the street for any sign of a cab. "Look, I'm off the job. Case is solved and I'm done for the night. So there is no reason you should be calling me."

"Claire, will you jus' consider it? At least give me that much."

"Goodnight, Lestrade."

Claire hung up the phone without an ounce of regret and shoved it back in her pocket. All she wanted to do was go home. But relaxing was no longer an option. Lestrade wanted her at all of his crime scenes _with _Sherlock, he'd said that much already. Given her a deal. He would get her out of filing paperwork at a desk for the Police if she helped him solve cases. And, of course, he hadn't mentioned the rude and reckless consulting detective at all.

Claire knew that thinking on it, as he'd requested, would drive her insane. Analyzing every square inch of what may never happen. Worrying. And then, if she tried to ignore it, it would be all she thought about anyway.

"Bugger," she hissed under her breath. After another second or so, Claire brought out her mobile again and dialed the D.I. He answered on the second ring with a very smug and satisfied, "Make up your mind, then?"

"No more paperwork, yeah?"

"No more paperwork."

Several seconds ticked by. Claire wanted this, she did. To put her knowledge to use; to _walk _around a crime scene instead of writing up reports about one at a computer. She knew that Lestrade had her right where he wanted her and that was enough to drive her crazy. She hated being cornered, but this was as good an offer as she was probably ever going to get from the Yard. And Lestrade was a good person. Very honest. Tried to be fair. He was one of the only people Claire knew she could trust. So this wasn't a trick…

"Fine. But I have some conditions."

Lestrade snorted, "Right. _You_ have conditions. You can name your conditions when you're a Detective, yeah? When you have your own protégée. For now, you go by _my _conditions, Bennett. Look forward to workin' with ya."

"_One _condition?" Claire's words were rushed, as she knew that Lestrade was about to end the call. The Detective Inspector hesitated.

"Go on, then."

"I won't work with Sherlock Holmes."

"More of a demand, isn't it?" Lestrade asked jokingly. "And that's a no. He says you're the _only_ one he'll work with. Better get used to him, Bennett. 'Cause he's your new partner."

"_Lestrade_, what're you -"

"See ya soon, Claire."

The D.I. hung up abruptly, silencing Claire's protests and irritating her further when she realized that there was no getting out of it. Lestrade had fooled her well. Claire didn't know if she admired him for pulling one over on her for _once_ or if she wanted to sit down and plot his demise. She _didn't_ flirt with danger. Sherlock did. Therefore, Sherlock was dangerous. And rude. And a bit of a prat. Overall, Claire had concluded that she didn't like him. Admired him, sure, but that was different than _liking_ someone.

And really, she admired his work_. _Not Sherlock Holmes himself. So there was no reason to be cordial… other than the fact that he was apparently her new partner.

She would definitely be plotting Lestrade's demise.

Sighing, Claire made her way home, thinking on the undeniably shitty hand fate had just dealt her. She didn't want things to be different. She was happy and things were good and she was _safe_. Maybe that was the problem.

Thanatophobia. Her fear of death. Maybe that was the reason she was so determined to defy Lestrade _and_ the brusque consulting detective she'd had a run in with earlier in the evening. It made her do irrational things. All of her phobias did. Arachnophobia, agoraphobia, achluophobia, claustrophobia, chorophobia, glossophobia, maniaphobia, the list went on and on and on. The only thing Claire wasn't afraid of, it seemed, was learning.

She loved to learn. And now, she realized, she would have to learn how to deal with someone as boorish and frustrating as Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>Upon arriving home, Claire discovered several things. One, that there was a note on her door. Two, that it was accompanied by a package. And three, that her paranoia over both the note and the package was making her achluophobia worse than ever.<p>

Cautiously, Claire bent over to close some distance between herself and the door in front of her, squinting at the messy script that was printed on the paper.

_The more you think you see, the less you actually do. Hope this helps. –SH_

SH? Sherlock Holmes. Claire's eyes rolled of their own volition as she snatched the note down from her front door and scooped up the small package that sat on her mat. Having already decided to leave Sherlock's 'gift' unopened, Claire plopped it down on her coffee table and locked her door.

The fact that he had found out where she lived was enough to make her indignant. Let alone that he had left her a note and a package in the same fatal swoop. He wasn't a stalker, Claire decided, but very misguided and uneducated in the acceptable behavior of modern day society. And even though she'd made up her mind to continue thinking so, she knew that if it happened again, she would have to talk to Lestrade. Or to Sherlock himself.

Claire wandered into her kitchen, kicking off her shoes before pulling out an unopened bottle of wine and a lone glass. And though preoccupied, Claire knew she would have to make sure that Sherlock wasn't clinically insane if she was to work with him every time Lestrade called them in. She couldn't ask Lestrade about it, he would only think she was being picky. Which she was, but it was in her own best interest to know who she would be working with.

"Relax, Claire" she murmured soothingly to no one in particular, "No more paperwork. No more paperwork…"

But it didn't help. Her muscles may have uncoiled now that she was inside and nursing a nearly full glass of wine, but her mind was still reeling. Her earlier enthrallment was gone, having been replaced by doubt and suspicion. It wasn't decent, this. Her worrying over a perfect stranger.

Irrational was what this was. The whole ordeal.

Claire could only hope that she wouldn't be called away to a crime scene before she had been able to relax and get at least seven hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. The young woman scoffed at her own naïvetés. Like that would ever happen.

There were more psychos in the world than one would like to believe. God knew that Claire tried to ignore it. But with the work that she did, she couldn't afford to. She had to keep her mind sharp; focused. She had to be ready for anything and anyone at any time. That was the job. That was what everyone at the Yard did.

They were aware and they looked, but they didn't observe. _That _was Claire's job. And she supposed that it was Sherlock's, too.

And now that she was thinking of it…

Claire's eyes shifted and landed on the small box that was perched atop her coffee table. She hadn't thought about opening it until now. He'd mentioned sight in his note. She thought that maybe he hadn't been talking about just seeing, but observing. Now more than curious, Claire set down her glass and wandered over to the package.

"Damn," she muttered and began picking at the packaging tape that held down the flaps on the box.

When the tape had been defeated and the flaps were accessible, Claire opened them without hesitation. Inside lay a delicate and quite beautiful magnifying glass; ornate and unique, the handle was carved from wood and inlaid with silver. For a moment or two, Claire was almost afraid to touch it.

However, she found herself again and reached inside to pick it up. She knew she couldn't use it at crime scenes. The lens was far too large to allow her to put in her pocket and would only hinder her should she carry it.

So, she perched it upon her mantle carefully, almost holding her breath lest she drop it or set it down with anything less than the utmost care. Stepping back, Claire eyed the new and mesmerizing addition to the belongings that sat on the mantle; pictures, an older clock, but not one of them caught her eye more than the glass.

Claire decided that she would leave it there. It was beautiful, that was unquestionable. _Axiomatic. _

And she enjoyed looking at beautiful things. After all, she was only human.


	3. Chapter 3

_** Hello, everyone, and a very happy Monday to all of you! We hope this chapter pleases you! **_

_** Oh! And if it wasn't clear already, Monday has been dubbed our official uploading day. We shall work hard to keep that schedule as best we can. Enjoy this chapter, written from Sherlock's POV.**_

_** And, in case any of you were wondering, both Jillian and I have the actress Alexis Bledel in mind for Claire's appearance. Just in case any of you wanted to know what Claire Bennett looks like :)**_

_**XXxxXXXxXXXxxXXxx**_

Chapter Three:

{Sherlock}

DEPRESSED:

_(of a person) in a state of general unhappiness or despondency_

ANXIOUS:

_experiencing worry, unease, or nervousness, typically about an imminent or something with an uncertain outcome_

SUICIDAL:

_deeply unhappy, depressed, or anxious and likely to have a disastrously damaging effect_ _on oneself or one's interests_

Sherlock was none of these. Frankly, he had never really been any of these. But the definitions still popped up in his head, nonetheless. What was the point of trying to self-diagnose what was wrong if he couldn't even think of the proper terms for the symptoms he was experiencing?!

Aggravated, but still determined, he searched the confines of his mind for yet another possible diagnosis.

BORED:

_feeling weary because one is unoccupied or lacks interest in one's current activity._

In truth, Sherlock Holmes was always bored. Now more so than ever. John was gone, the reality of which was just starting to sink into the detective's rather thick skull. For hours he had been in what the doctors, or even Mrs. Hudson, might call 'denial'. Sherlock Holmes refused to think of himself as being in denial over his friend's absence. That said, he was just being stubborn, trying to convince himself that John would come back. John would miss him. The soldier, though calloused on the outside, was someone who relied on the companionship of people around him. Sherlock had tried to use this fact to convince himself that his ex-flatmate would be back soon enough, but as minutes turned into hours, and hours into days, Sherlock was forced to come to the conclusion that John Watson was truly gone.

And Sherlock was stuck in his bloody flat! No place to go, nothing to do, no one to insult! It was boring as hell! He had had that case, but that had been three days ago and Lestrade hadn't called since. His mobile sat dejectedly on the coffee table. He was laying upon the sofa. 'Pouting', John might have called it. But Sherlock Holmes wasn't pouting. He was simply..._God, _were there no words to describe how he was feeling?!

He slammed his head back against the pillow, inadvertently hitting his skull hard upon the arm of the sofa. He grunted in pain and flew into a seated position, fed up with everything. So what did Sherlock do when his mind went A-wall on him and he decided that he absolutely despised everything about the puny existence that was the human race? Well, he paced, of course, and now was certainly no exception.

The detective walked rapidly about the room. And if anyone else had been looking on, the movements would surely have made their heads spin. But it helped Sherlock think and to concentrate. He _needed _another case. Three days and he was already going mad. If John had been here, he would at least have some amusement. But without him...Sherlock was not an amusing bloke. He was simply a consulting detective with no cases, aggravated to no end, and bloody-well bored.

He wished silently that the case could have lasted longer than it had. It hadn't even been a case really, it had been child's play. Child's play that had been solved even faster with the help of the new arrival. Sherlock crinkled his nose in disdain at the thought of Claire Bennett.

INTRIGUING:

_arousing one's curiosity or interest_

BOTHER:

_a person or thing that causes worry or difficulty_

That summed Claire Bennett up perfectly. Finally, Sherlock's inner dictionary was a success! She was an intriguing bother. And that was all she was. He had found himself quite irritated when she had just butted her head into the case and had _helped _him solve it. Her, actually helping, him! _Imagine_! He was Sherlock Holmes and she was nothing more than a woman working for the police. More than likely had a desk job, filed paperwork, everything else that was just so _boring_. In that case, why was she so intelligent? This intrigued Sherlock to no end. If she truly could see things as he could then why was she working a dull and lifeless desk job for Scotland Yard?! It made no sense whatsoever.

With that said, there was only one Sherlock Holmes and the man in question would have liked to keep it that way. He didn't need her intruding on any of his cases. Then, why the _hell_, had he casually mentioned to Lestrade that she would be the only one he would work with?

It must have been his subconscious telling him that she would be a good replacement for John. WRONG. No one would ever replace John. That much was certain. But she could be a partner of sorts, one who would hopefully not prove herself as having more brains than he.

"Oh, who am I kidding?!" He muttered, "She cannot have more brains than me. _No one_ can have more brains that me. What was I thinking?" But somehow, he wasn't convinced. Either way, he wanted to know more about her. Who she was, what she thought, what she knew. She wasn't exactly fascinating, but she certainly had Sherlock Holmes intrigued. Just as he had been intrigued by John. Still was, really.

Sherlock nearly missed the sound of his mobile buzzing. He eagerly fished his hand into his pocket in search for the device. Perhaps it was a case. Perhaps he was needed...

The usually cold detective found his lips barely able to suppress a smile as he looked at the name of the messenger.

**You busy? -J**

_John. _Sherlock's mind whirred with a level of excitement he didn't know he was capable of exhibiting. After all, it was just John Watson. And he had only been gone for two days. Should contact from him cause him to be so...again, his inner dictionary seemed to pause. Was there any word to describe how he felt?

He found himself hastily answering back.

**I'm always busy. -SH**

Damn. Why did he just lie? He wasn't doing anything. Not one bloody thing. But the Sherlock Holmes that John Watson knew was always moving, always thinking, always solving, and never stopping. Did he want to maintain his jaded and ever flippant image for the doctor? A second went by. A minute. Sherlock began to worry. Had the man been able to see right through his lie? Or had he simply been called a way for a moment? Two minutes went by and Sherlock began to stuff his mobile back into his pocket, a scowl on his face.

Then came the _beep, _signaling to Sherlock that he had yet another text from John, or so he hoped.

Out came the phone again.

**I'm gonna call you, alright? -J**

Sherlock didn't have time to write a response, because John didn't give him any. The screen lit up, John's contact photo displayed upon it, whilst the phone began to ring. Before the phone could ring twice, Sherlock had answered and lifted the mobile to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock?" The doctor's voice floated through the speaker and Sherlock felt himself nearly grinning. "I didn't know if you'd be busy. Time change and all. And, regardless of your text, I know for a fact you're 'not always busy'." He sounded amused and Sherlock smirked.

"Hmm. I'm always busy." He insisted flatly and could hear John scoffing over the phone and could practically imagine him shaking his head at the very thought. "What are you doing?"

"Just getting ready for supper."

"With the time change between the UK and Afghanistan, and it being around one here, it must be nearly five-thirty there, I would say. Early dinner."

John snorted. "Never waste a moment to show off, do you, mate?"

"I've got nothing better to do," Sherlock shot back in his dull, unamused tone, which just succeeded in making John laugh more.

"And how's the flat?"

"Same as before."

"You still talkin' to the skull, then?"

Sherlock shrugged and moved to look out the window. "I don't have anyone else to talk to, so why not?"

There was a lull in the conversation. Sherlock thought it was useless time being wasted. But, for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything to ask. Nothing. John was in bloody Afghanistan and he couldn't think of one question! You'd think the Doctors Without Borders thing would produce some small sort of curiosity, but, for Sherlock, he just wanted John home. He couldn't very well tell him that now, could he? And Sherlock couldn't tell John that he couldn't care less about the organization that John had volunteered for. In fact, Sherlock thought he rather hated it. And he couldn't understand, with all his intellect, why John would want to sign up for the program and _return_ to Afghanistan to help fight the war. Not even Sherlock could unravel such a mystery.

Finally, John decided to break the silence that was quickly turning from uncomfortable to straight-up awkward. "How are you doing?"

Sherlock's head spun with that question. It was the last thing he was expecting John to say. Asking about his well-being? And John had said it in that I'm-not-just-a-doctor-I'm-your-friend kind of way that made Sherlock nauseous. John actually cared about him. He was doing God-knows what for complete strangers, and _he _was asking _Sherlock _how he was doing?!

"Fine, I'm fine." Was all Sherlock said.

"Fine? That's it?"

The detective rolled his eyes, as if the doctor could see him. "Well, what else do you want me to say?"

"Any cases lately?" John pushed.

"Nothing of consequence. Dull."

John chuckled. "What _isn't_ dull to you, Sherlock?"

"No, really. This one was so _SIMPLE_!" The detective nearly hissed. "Even without any help, I would've been able to solve it in a snap of the fingers."

"Help?" John echoed and Sherlock realized the fatal mistake he had made. He had suggested that he had had help. The great Sherlock Holmes being helped! "I thought you didn't accept help, especially from those inferior to you?"

"That's not true! I let you help me, didn't I?" He jabbed back as he plopped down into his chair with a heavy sigh. "Besides, it's not like I had a choice. She-"

"_She_?"

Sherlock frowned at the interruption, and the emphasis on that one annoying word. He could practically imagine John trying to hide his smirk as he wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Oh, stop acting like a child, John. Yes, 'she' as in female, considering she _was_ a female."

"And you let her...help you?"

"Well, it's not like I had much of a choice. There I am trying to solve a case and she kept interrupting me with these new ideas and theories. That's MY job!"

"And was she right about any of them?" As much as Sherlock hated to answer that question, he did.

He responded sulkily, "That's the worst part. She's very good, I'm afraid."

"Erm...that's bad why?" He could tell the doctor was confused.

Sherlock groaned before responding testily, "Because, John, she's become my new partner."

"New partner?" John echoed.

"All Lestrade's idea. Thought we would solve cases faster together. I can solve cases just as fast all on my own!" He shouted, feeling hurt and indignant.

"Will you stop being a child," the doctor's voice came through the mobile, "and accept the help? Lord knows it'll be better than -" He stopped abruptly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Better than what?"

He heard the crackle of John sighing on the other end. Then, he blurted out; "Better than you being alone."

"Alone?" He sounded shocked. "I'm not alone."

"Fine, deny it all you want. Anyway, is she pretty?"

To be truthful, Sherlock had never much thought about it. He had been too ticked off with her intrusion and her wild intellect to really try and observe her. "Average." Then, he smirked. "Now who needs to grow up? You sound like a hormone-crazed teen."

"Can you at least tell me her name?"

"Ms. Bennett."

John sighed. "Her first name, Sherlock."

"Oh. It's… Claire."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

{Claire}

It was three in the morning when Claire's mobile awoke her from the first night of semi-pleasant sleep that she'd had all week.

"Bloody hell." She cursed sleepily, reaching blindly for the source of all of the noise. Claire blinked several times as she brought the mobile closer to her face, trying to focus on the Caller ID flashing across the screen. Once she had deciphered the name, she sat up, immediately awake. It was Lestrade. And a call from Lestrade generally meant only one thing.

A case.

"Make it good." She huffed as she answered the phone. Claire was pleased with herself. She sounded irritated. That was good; she didn't need Lestrade thinking she was excited over going to a crime scene.

_Think_, she ordered herself, _be serious. Crime scene. Death. Body. Or… bodies…. Oh god, is there more than one? Is there more than one body? OH SHUT UP, CLAIRE!_

Rolling her eyes, she put a hand to her forehead. She had to be professional. Had to make a good impression. She'd been as calm as could be at her last case, but that was when she had just been taking pictures and filing paperwork. _This_… well, now she had a lot more to lose. And so, she couldn't let her mind run wild. She couldn't be juvenile.

"Get dressed." Lestrade ordered tiredly. "Might wanna pick up some coffee on your way."

"Don't need it." She insisted, throwing back the sheets so that she could begin her hunt for some suitable attire. "I'm awake."

"Not for you, _Nancy Drew_." Lestrade grumbled unceremoniously. "For me. I'm absolutely knackered."

"Bit touchy this morning, are we?" Claire snickered, rolling her eyes at the pathetic human being that was the Detective Inspector on the other end of the line.

"Not a morning person."

"Alright, Grumpy." Claire sighed. "Fill me in."

"Been another murder." He told her flatly. "Young man. Early thirty's. Strangled. And you're bringin' that coffee to Hyde Park."

Claire's mind kicked into high-gear. Strangulation meant murder. And while murder meant that she got to do her job, or the job that she'd wanted to do for ages, it also meant that _Sherlock_ would be there. Unless she beat him to the scene. And she _had _to beat him to the scene. Grabbing her purse and scarf, Claire stumbled to the front door, phone still tucked between her ear and shoulder.

"Strangulation?" She asked. "Is it the first?"

"Third one this month." Lestrade yawned into the phone before continuing. "And that's why I called you. One's an incident. Two's coincidence..."

"Three's a pattern." Claire finished, closing her front door behind her. "Give me fifteen minutes, Lestrade. I'll be right there."

True to her word, Claire arrived at Hyde Park at exactly fifteen minutes after four with coffee for the zombie of a D.I. that had called her in the first place, and ducked under the tape with an eager alertness that was the envy of every other half-asleep soul at the scene.

She was trying so hard not to bounce as she peered at the scene, still from a distance. Adrenaline was filling her veins, making her feel as if she was expanding, seconds away from imploding from the high that came from being in her element. She could do this and she knew it. But there were things that had caught her eye as strange the moment she had stepped onto the scene.

Hyde Park wasn't exactly what one would call private. The grounds were flat, wide, and open and, if there had been anyone around at the time of the murder, the case would have been solved already. The imbecile would have been caught.

"Not a very discreet place to commit a murder, is it?" She murmured to no one in particular. Claire found it easier to piece the puzzle together when she spoke aloud. And since there was no one around her, as they were all combing over the area around the body and the fountain that it was leaning against, she felt that she had the freedom to do so.

But she _wasn't_ alone.

"I would say not." Sherlock's arrogant and assuming voice rumbled from behind her.

Claire's jaw clenched in contempt, tightening to the point of causing her pain. Dammit. If she'd been focused, if she'd been doing her job instead of frolicking in la-la land, she could have had the advantage by now. But she hadn't approached the body yet. Hell, she hadn't even gotten a look at it.

Indignation rose in her chest. That pushy, snot-nosed, know-it-all was at _her_ crime scene. Just when she was about to seethe, Claire stopped. Suddenly, all other thoughts had dissipated from her brain except one. A single word.

_Partners._

Claire cleared her throat and crossed her arms before she thought better of it. "You're up early."

"Don't sleep." Sherlock said, already bored with their conversation. "I was awake when Lestrade requested my presence."

'_Requested my presence', _what the hell was this? The eighteenth century?

Cringing at her own venomous thoughts, Claire winced and turned away, pretending to watch Lestrade when she was really just trying to come up with something nice to say. That was proving to be almost impossible. Claire bit her lip to keep herself from groaning aloud. At their first and last crime scene together, Claire had been so enamored with Sherlock that she now found it shameful. The man was a genius. A magnet for a person like her. And then he'd opened his big, fat mouth and spoken.

Her feelings of caution that she'd been left with the last time they'd met had begun to evolve into feelings of contempt as she watched him stalk across the well-kept grounds of the park, long legs carrying him in an easy and relaxed stride.

Claire found herself almost angry with how calm he was. She envied that. He seemed so detached, so painfully professional, that it made her feel like a child in the midst of all of these seasoned investigators and analysts.

But seeing how close he was to the body, the body she should have already been examining, Claire squared her shoulders back and took a deep breath.

Calm. Cool. Professional.

She was trying not to run toward the fountain, she really was. And she had succeeded somewhat in that her stride was only a hurried walk instead of a sprint. She would have had to sprint in order to catch up to Sherlock and his damnably long legs, but she had enough sense to hold back.

"What've we got?" Claire asked as she approached, passing off the mug of coffee to Lestrade. Not that she didn't know sort of what she was getting into. She simply thought that they might've found more in the last quarter hour than she had been made aware of.

"I'll leave the details to you two." Lestrade told her, hands wrapping gratefully around the warm mug. "I've got to make sure these _idiots _aren't trampling over evidence."

Looking over her shoulder, Claire saw two boys, teenagers, looking around excitedly at the organized chaos unfolding before them. She deduced that they must have been the ones who had found the body. Park closed at 12. Snuck in, probably.

Turning her attention back to Sherlock, she watched as he knelt by the body and sniffed the air near the victim's face discreetly.

"Can't smell any alcohol." Sherlock mused quietly, virtually ignoring Claire's presence.

Ligature marks on the neck. No alcohol on his breath. No signs of a struggle. The scene was so clean that Claire might have thought the poor bloke had fallen asleep, if it weren't for his eyes being all wide and spotted with red; red that she realized was caused by the bursting of blood vessels in the young man's eyes; otherwise known as petechiae.

Claire turned to Anderson, her least favorite person other than Sally, but he was available and she wanted answers.

"Did you find his personal effects?"

Anderson blinked for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether or not Claire was worth his time and the effort he would expend speaking to her. "Still had his personal effects. Wallet, keys, mobile, it was all in his pockets. Wasn't a robbery."

"I wasn't asking if there was a robbery." Claire told him shortly. "D'you know his name?"

"Oh." Anderson's face reverted back into its natural bored, though still haughty, state. Claire had stolen his chance to show off a bit. "Yeah. 'Course. Name's Cal Sullivan. Thirty-one."

"Can I have a look at his wallet?"

Anderson's beady eyes narrowed. "You got gloves?"

Claire batted her eyelashes, forcing a smile on her face. "Well, I _will_ when you give them to me."

With a huff, Anderson stalked off to bring Claire gloves and the victim's wallet. Claire knew that she should have already bothered to put on latex gloves, but she'd lost all sense of rationality when Sherlock had appeared. But it was back now, and she was bound and determined not to let him get to her. And so, when Anderson came back and handed her the things she'd asked for, her tired, civilian persona slipped away and out came the investigator to play.

Claire flipped through Cal Sullivan's wallet, eyes scanning its contents, looking for an indication of a family. If he had kids, it would all be here. Photos, movie ticket stubs from the latest animated film, _something_.

All Claire could find were a few wadded gum wrappers and an old subway pass, excluding his credit cards and cash. Not a family man. A quick glance at the man's left hand confirmed her suspicions; no wedding ring.

She turned back to Anderson, handing him the wallet. "His mobile?"

Anderson held up the evidence bag containing the mobile, clearly having thought ahead of time that she would want it next. "Lestrade said not to seal it. Figured you two would wanna have a go with it."

"Just me. Thanks." Claire said, taking the bag. "I'll find you and return it when I'm done."

Without waiting for his response, Claire turned away and began thumbing through the phone. It was an old phone, one that Claire found odd. A thirty-one year old man with a flip phone… _why_? Fixed income?

Studying it carefully, she began to thumb through his contacts. Most of them were friends, she guessed, but there were three that stood out. His parents, and a girl under the name of 'Livvie'.

There were only two reasons to give someone a nickname in your contacts list when you were over the age of twenty-seven. You were either dating them or you wanted to be.

"Sherlock?" Claire called, pointing to the phone. "I've got something."

"Mmm." The detective hummed quietly, acknowledging her just enough to make it clear that she was bothering him. And that was when Claire decided that she'd had quite enough.

"_Sherlock_!" She raised her voice and got him to look up from what he was doing. "If we're going to work together _as you requested_, then you're going to have to act like I exist. And since I have your attention," Claire went on, almost growling the words at him, "I've got the name of the girlfriend. Olivia. I'll have Lestrade contact the parents, hopefully they know her and can send her our way."

Sherlock watched her for a moment, obviously thoughtful. Claire supposed that he might have been second-guessing his decision to work with her at all. Not that she minded. If working with Sherlock meant that she got to keep this job, then so be it. That didn't mean, however, that she wasn't allowed to be absolutely furious with him when she wanted to be. And the longer he went without answering, the angrier she was becoming.

"This is the part where you open your mouth and say, 'Okay, Claire,' and act like you give a damn." She snapped, stuffing the mobile back in the evidence bag.

Sherlock's lips twitched and finally turned up into a smirk. "Okay, Claire." He said, and then turned back to the victim.

Claire tried to pretend that she didn't want to hit him and turned on her heels to deliver the mobile back to Anderson as she had said she would. And after she'd done so, she hardly realized it, because her mind was consumed with the realization that her used-to-be idol was a complete asshole.

Fuming and slightly disheartened, Claire spotted Lestrade lingering on the periphery of the scene, sipping his coffee contentedly. She made a beeline for the D.I., grateful that there was at least one person here that she liked.

"You going to see the parents?" Claire asked him; her way of saying hello again, she supposed. There was no need in wasting time. She just wanted out of here. She wanted to make progress on the case.

"As soon as I finish this." He said, wagging the coffee in the air. "Thanks, by the way. I needed it."

"I could tell." She said, laughing lightly. "And I found something I thought you might want to know."

He arched one eyebrow as he took another sip of coffee, a sign that she should go on.

"Name of the girlfriend: Olivia. Had her in his phone as 'Livvie'. There were no family photos in his wallet, nothing to indicate he had a kid. No wedding ring either, so I know it isn't his wife. So, I assume it's his girlfriend, anyway. I _could_ be wrong, but…"

_It's not likely_, she added silently to herself.

Lestrade shot her a small smile. "Good work." He said. "Very good for your first time." The D.I. downed the last of the coffee from his mug and handed it off to a resentful coworker. "Claire, how are you with people?"

Claire blinked several times. "Depends on the situation. I'm not… I can't really… I'm not comforting."

"S'okay." Lestrade told her. "But I want you to come with me anyway. You and Sherlock. I'll go in, talk to the parents, you two can stay in the car and I'll send you on your way when I've got what you need to move forward."

"So you want me to… go get Sherlock…" Claire murmured, trying not to seem violently opposed to the idea. The thought of sitting beside Sherlock in a car was almost revolting.

"'Course." Lestrade said, fighting off a snicker. "He's your partner, right?"

Claire nodded slowly, flinching slightly at hearing the use of the dreaded word aloud. "Right." She said. "Absolutely. I'll just…" Claire gestured in Sherlock's general direction before heading off to retrieve him.

Sherlock, at the last moment, looked up and saw that she was coming for him. Claire watched in surprise as he stood, abandoning his work, and met her halfway.

"I'm finished here. You needed something. What?"

Aaaaand she was fuming again. "_Lestrade_ needs us." She grumbled. "He's going to see the vic's parents. He'll get what we need and then we can finish up."

"You think it'll be that easy, do you?" Sherlock inquired, genuine curiosity alight in his eyes.

Claire smiled mischievously. "Tell me, what did you notice?" She asked. "Not everything. Just the neck."

"Garroting." Sherlock stated. "Probably used a cord or a belt. Something easily accessible and easily hidden." He paused for a fraction of a second. "Most likely a belt."

"Right." Claire agreed. "But, the ligature marks were post mortem. Look, Sherlock." She said, gesturing to the body that was now being placed in a bag for transport. "Leaning against the fountain. No skin under the nails. No scratch marks. No blood. No fibers. _Nothing_. There's something else at play. I think our victim knew the killer. It's too tame, all of it. These three murders? I think they're all the same. Connected somehow. I just… I have to find the link."

"_We_." Sherlock reminded her abruptly. "We have to find the link. Starting with the girlfriend."

Claire didn't answer him. She only looked over her shoulder at Lestrade, who was getting a tad impatient, and then motioned for Sherlock to follow her. Considering the fact that he did, Claire felt a little better than before. He may not exactly be tolerable, but he did prioritize when he had a job to do.

And so, Lestrade and the two detectives rode together in silence to Petherton Road, located in Highbury, one of London's suburbs. By the time they arrived, it was fast approaching five-thirty in the morning. They'd spent over an hour at the crime scene, adding the fifteen minutes before that they'd taken to arrive at Hyde Park, and the ten that it took Lestrade to nurse his coffee.

Claire was exhausted, thinking of nothing at this point other than going home and falling into bed to sleep the rest of the day away. Of course, she knew that she couldn't. Not until Lestrade had spoken to the victim's parents and had given them the address of the girlfriend. But before they got down to business, Claire knew that Lestrade would have to comfort the grieving parents. And she didn't want to be insensitive, but they were on a schedule. The longer they waited to get a move on with this case, the more likely it would be that the killer would take the opportunity to slip away and he would never be heard from again.

She couldn't have that.

But Claire would just have to wait. To bide her time like she knew everyone else was doing. And she hoped to God that she would outshine her partner in doing so.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

{Sherlock}

By the time they arrived at Petherton Road, located in Highbury, it was nearly five-thirty in the morning. Claire looked exhausted, though she tried to hide it. But Sherlock wasn't the least bit tired. Come to think of it, he never really was. It was as if his brain was constantly driving and constantly working, all too fast for him to ever consider the option that was sleep. Sherlock Holmes believed in naps, but that was it. Sleep for eight hours of the day?! If he did that, he woke up even more exhausted than when he lay down.

The secret was his high intelligence coupled with his nicotine patches. That was all he needed to run on, and he could keep running without stopping for three days straight. He knew this. He had had to do so before. Many times.

Once the cabbie stopped in front of the apartment complex that was Olivia Smith's home, Sherlock opened the door and slid out into the quiet street. There was not another person in sight, save for one homeless man sitting on the street corner. Petherton Road was certainly not known for wealth, power, or status. Just ordinary, middle-class students and families. Menial. So absorbed in his thoughts, Sherlock didn't even hold the door open for Claire. Well, even if he _hadn't _been thinking he still would have probably slammed the door before she could get out. Lucky for Claire, she saw the fast movement and the door and stopped it with her hand before it could slam into her face. She scowled at him and he smirked.

"You are displeased, Ms. Bennett?"

"Not displeased," she replied, tossing her head, "Just annoyed, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock didn't answer. He only nodded in acknowledgment before jogging up the stairs behind Lestrade. The D.I. rang the buzzer and within thirty seconds a woman had come to the front door.

"Are you Ms. Olivia Smith?" Lestrade asked with the most sympathetic frown he could muster.

Olivia's brows furrowed. "Yah, and who are you?" She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

DEFENSIVE: very anxious to challenge or avoid criticism.

She was certainly feeling defensive, Sherlock knew. _Not the first run in with the police._

"Pardon me for the intrusion, Ms. Smith, but I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. I have some information regarding your boyfriend Cal Sullivan."

Her eyes widened. "What's he done then?"

"Nothing," Lestrade tried to explain. "I'm really sorry, ma'am, but this is something I would like to explain inside if you don't mind?"

Olivia seemed to be looking him over before her eyes turned to Sherlock. "And who's he?"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He is helping on this case."

"Case?" Her voice cracked. "What case?" Then, her face turned pale and it would appear that she had arrived to the conclusion on her own. Quick-witted. At least Sherlock gave her credit for that.

"That's what I would like to talk to you about, Ms. Smith. Now may we come in?"

She hesitated only a second more before she stepped aside and allowed the men access into her home. She didn't stop to make sure that they were following her. She just continued to walk on into the terribly small living area. Lestrade trailed behind her, but Sherlock turned back around when he realized that Claire was not following. In fact, she was still at the bottom of the stairs.

She whipped out her mobile and began to dial a number.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked. His voice was void of any curiosity. He sounded indifferent as he watched her.

Claire turned to him. "I'm calling base." She stopped short in her explanation as someone came to the phone. "Hi Dave, it's Claire. I'm calling to ask you to look into a couple of files for me." She stopped again as the man on the opposite line spoke. She nodded her head. "According to Lestrade, there have been two other cases of death by strangulation in the past month. Pull 'em out. I want everything you can get me on those cases. I'll be by within two hours to pick 'em up. K? Thanks, Dave." She pocketed her mobile and turned back around to face Sherlock. He was staring at her.

"What?" She asked him and instinctively knocked a piece of her hair behind her ear.

"Nothing." Was all he said before he turned back around, not even waiting for the woman to follow him. But this time, he remembered to leave the door open for her.

His lip curled as he was assaulted with the incredibly terrible sound of a woman weeping. Sherlock rolled his eyes, less than discreetly, and then he stuffed his hands into the pocket of his coat and sat down in a loveseat directly across from him. Claire followed suit and sat beside him. He noticed that her hands were stuffed into her coat as well and that she was chewing her lip, looking more and more uncomfortable by the second.

UNCOMFORTABLE: causing or feeling unease or awkwardness

Sherlock raised a brow. He had never seen her uncomfortable before. With any situation. But, then again, he had seen her only twice in his lifetime. Curious how their paths had never crossed before, although, why would they?

His head hurt and his nostrils flared impatiently as he looked at Olivia Smith, who was clearly distraught, and growing more and more hysterical by the second. Lestrade held one of her hands in his. Her face was buried in her other hand as she sobbed hard. And long. Until Sherlock nearly got up and left. The only thing that stopped him was a firm hand on his upper arm. When, he looked down, he saw that Claire was looking at him and shaking her head disapprovingly. He gave her the best pout he could, to clearly express his disdain, before ignoring her completely.

"Ms. Smith," Lestrade tried to comfort the woman by stroking her hand."I know this is all awful and I am terribly sorry I had to be the bearer of such news. But there are a couple questions I need to ask you if this crime can ever be solved."

"You expect me to answer your questions _now_?!" She looked up at him and shouted. "You just told me Cal's dead. That he's been murdered! You just get the 'ell out of my house."

Finally, Sherlock could take no more of the screeching and he stood up. "Ms. Smith," he spoke with a voice of authority, deep and dark, lacking all compassion for her situation, "You're right. Cal was murdered. Quite frankly, he was strangled. And it is my belief-" He was interrupted as Claire cleared her throat. He rolled his eyes at her "-and the belief of Ms. Bennett that he was killed by someone close to him."

"So what? You think it was me?" Her face paled and she was back to protesting loudly.

"ENOUGH!" Sherlock roared and the woman stopped immediately, her lip quivering as she tried not to cry. "You can go all hysterical later. Right now, we need to know. Did your boyfriend have any enemies."

Olivia shook her head. "Doubt it. At least not that I would know of. Who didn't like Cal? He was a great guy." Her voice cracked and she scrubbed the tears from her eyes.

"But think. Is there anyone you think could've done this?" Sherlock pressed.

She shook her head and the detective groaned. "Then you're not thinking hard enough."

"Sherlock," Claire scolded from behind him, "Stop it." Normally, he wouldn't have listened to her, but quite honestly, his head was hurting. Not to mention, the look in the woman's eyes was a bit frightening, if the detective was honest. He stepped aside, albeit begrudgingly, and allowed Claire to take center stage. "Ms. Smith," she asked much more softly than Sherlock, "I know this is hard for you, but we need you to think. Was there anything that gave you any concern for Cal's personal safety?"

"Well," Olivia began, "He did have that disorder. Post-traumatice stress. Made him quite fidgety and anxious sometimes. Looking back on it, he never was really...erm...right after he came back."

"Came back?" Claire pressed and the woman nodded.

"Yes, from Iraq. He was over there for six years. I waited for him. Then, he came back and he just wasn't the same Cal anymore."

"Yes, war will do that to people," Claire agreed.

Then, Sherlock broke in again. "Did Cal ever take any medication for the disorder?"

"Mhmm. His psychiatrist prescribed them. I can't pronounce the name."

"You wouldn't happen to have some of it, would you?"

Olivia nodded. "Oh, of course I do. Cal always kept some in the house. I'll fetch it for ya." She got up from the couch, still sniffling, and left the room.

When Sherlock allowed his eyes to glance at Claire, he saw her frowning with disapproval. His eyebrows raised but he asked nothing. "You have no tact, do you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Tact never got anything done," he argued.

"I beg to differ," she chuckled humorlessly. "Out of the two of us, which was able to get the most information out of the girl?" Sherlock scowled and was about to lash back, if it hadn't been for Lestrade standing up just then.

"Alright, then, that's enough. Some partners you two are. I can practically feel the ice."

Sherlock sniffed. "She's helping me. I don't have to like her."

"Helping you?" She scoffed before crossing her arms in turn. "I don't have to like you either."

Lestrade only shook his head before turning to the sound of approaching footsteps. When Olivia Smith returned, her eyes were still cloudy. She looked emotionless, but she at least seemed to have composed herself a bit. She handed the bottle of drugs to Lestrade, and he pocketed them. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Is that all?"

"For now, yes." He placed a hand on her shoulder in comfort. "Once again, we are terribly sorry for your loss."

She didn't answer. Her lip quivered. And then Lestrade walked out the front door, with the two detectives in tow. They all got back in the cabbie.

"Scotland Yard, and step on it," Lestrade ordered the driver before turning to Claire and Sherlock. "I'll send the drugs down to forensics and see if it's really what the girlfriend thinks. Shame we couldn't get much else." He rubbed his face with his hand tiredly. "And I think I need another coffee."

"I asked the base to pull the files on the two other strangulations. I'm gonna look 'em over and see what connections I can find." She turned to Sherlock and tried her best to give her most friendly smile, but it felt fake to her, and she was sure it was fake to Sherlock. "And you, Mr. Holmes, I assume you would want to look 'em over with me?" But he didn't answer. He just looked ahead and closed his eyes as if he were trying to block out the sound of her voice. "I'm sorry, am I annoying you?" Still no reply. She turned to Lestrade.

He shook his head. "I wouldn't interrupt him right now. He's thinking."

"Thinking?" She scoffed. "Well, he'll have to think on his own time. Oi, Sherlock!" She flicked his head.

The detective turned to her and scowled darkly. "Perhaps I made a mistake in choosing you to be my new partner. You talk entirely too much."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she shot back. "I was just wonderin' if you wanted to look over the case files with me, considerin' this is _our _case."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. We'll get the files. But we're getting something to eat too. I'm starving."

"Oh, the great Sherlock Holmes actually eats!" She exclaimed in a voice that was dripping with sarcasm. "Alright. Know anywhere good?"

But, by then, Sherlock Holmes was back in his mind palace again, and there was no more talking.

Forty minutes later would have found both Sherlock Holmes and Claire Bennett seated across from each other, both staring awkwardly at the other, in a small cafe just a block away from 221B Baker Street. Somewhere amidst the silence, Claire began to impatiently drum her knuckles against the table.

Upon arriving, she had ordered a small coffee, extra cream and no sugar, just how she liked it. She nursed it and invited its warmth, as well as the rush of energy that was beginning to flood through her body. Across from her, the detective had ordered the omelet special. Everything imaginable piled into a hovel of three eggs and cheese. And true to his word, Sherlock was hungry enough to devour all of it.

The moment directly after he chewed the last bite, placed his fork back onto his plate, and wiped his mouth with his napkin, Sherlock Holmes was ready for business. "Let's see those files."

Claire raised a brow. "How 'bout you say 'please' first?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Manners are only designed for menial pleasantries and insignificant drivel, Ms. Bennett. If every time I spoke I had to engage in social etiquette, I would never get anything done."

Rather than arguing, Claire just nodded her head and turned to retrieve the files from her satchel. She swiveled back around and handed one of the folders to Sherlock. "Here. You take one, I'll take the other. Mr. Arthur Pace," she continued, "Male, obviously. 35. Caucasian. Served in the Army. A wife and no children. Lived in-"

"Say that again." Sherlock interrupted and demanded in a way that made Claire want to roll her eyes. She suppressed the movement.

"Which bit, Mr. Holmes?"

"Just say it all over again." He hurried his words as if she was wasting his precious time.

She bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Her voice was strained as she repeated the list. "Male. 35. Caucasian. Served in the Army-"

"Stop." Sherlock interrupted her again, calmly and coolly. "The Army, how interesting."

"Why?"

Sherlock pointed down to his file and began reading. "Rupert Poulter. 32. Caucasian. Served in the Army." He looked up at her pointedly and her eyes gleamed with recognition.

"Of course. Cal served too." She looked down at her file. "Arthur served for six years. So did Cal."

"And guess who else did?"

Claire looked at him and watched as the excitement of the case became evident in his eyes, in his posture, in every movement of his torso and twist of his head. She could barely suppress a smile. Not once did she think Sherlock Holmes capable of being the least bit interesting, much less animated, as he was now. "You think they're all connected?"

"Of course they're connected." He replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Poulter served in the 176th division."

"Pace, as well."

Sherlock nodded and then stood up from his seat, grabbing the file between his nimble fingers. "And I'm guessing our Mr. Sullivan was right there with them." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialed a number. When the other line picked up he began to speak rapidly. "Lestrade, look up the 176th division of the British Army. Cross-reference that information with the past six years. I need the name of the commander, as well as any officers living within a 2 mile radius of Hyde Park."

"May I ask why, then?" The D.I. asked.

"Cal Sullivan served under this division. So did our two other victims. There has to be a reason why they were all killed within a short period of each other. Run a detailed search of the commander, as well as anyone else who might hold some grudge against the men."

Lestrade sighed. "Looks like it'll be a long day. Anything else?"  
>"All of these men lived in the same area. Find out if there are any other ex-soldiers within a 2 mile radius of the Park. See if they have any special connection to the victims. We don't know how many more this killer is planning to take out. We have to get to them before he does."<p>

"Fine." Lestrade agreed before inquiring, "And how are you and Claire holdin' up?"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm beginning to question why I ever made her my partner."

Claire heard that and spoke loud enough so that Lestrade could hear. "And I'm wondering why I get stuck payin' the bill!"

"You're not paying, Sherlock?" The man on the other line sounded displeased. "I mean, I'm not shocked, but really?"

"She's a woman. She's not a lifeless object. She can pay just as much as I can."

"But you should-"

Sherlock groaned. "Just get me that information." Then, he stuffed the mobile back into his coat pocket. Claire sidled up to him just then.

"Another wonderful compliment, Mr. Holmes," she observed smugly. "Good to know I'm 'not just a lifless object'. You continue to blow my mind with your flattery."

"Flattery serves the vain purpose of elevating someone else's standards while degrading another's. Why would I ever induce such a thing?"

Claire slipped the strap of her satchel over her shoulder and hugged the file close to her as they walked out onto the street. "Every girl likes to be flattered. Just a little bit can't hurt."

"Is that why you like _him_ so much?"

Claire furrowed her brows and stopped to stare at him. She looked as if she were the epitome of confusion. "_Him_? Who are ya talking about?"  
>"Dave." She continued to look as if he had grown two heads. He sighed when he realized he would have to explain himself. "That man at base you called while we were at Smith's. First of all, you knew his first name. Most people within the force call each other simply by the last name, unless of course, they work together often or are very close. You were a woman with a desk job who went out into the field to file reports. You probably rarely saw this 'Dave', since you didn't regularly work with him. Yet, you still call him by his first name. This implies that you are close to him."<p>

The woman could barely keep from laughing. Her smile was enough to send the consulting detective's expression into a state of utter confusion. "Mr. Holmes," she explained, trying to keep from snickering too much, "My actions 'imply' nothing. Only to those who assume way more about the situation than what is actually there. You left out one very important theory: perhaps I'm just nice and well-mannered. Perhaps I make it a habit to know everyone by their first name and call them as such. It seems so much less demanding, and a lot more friendly."

If he was put out at being wrong, Sherlock didn't show it. Instead, he chose to ask, "Then why do you insist on calling me 'Mr. Holmes'?"

"Because you call me 'Ms. Bennett', and so I thought I'd return the favor."

"Perhaps if we're to begin working with each other more regularly, we should be on a first name basis. Saves all of the fuss later on."

Claire grinned in agreement. "Fine, then...Sherlock." She held out her hand towards him and he accepted it.

"Very well...Claire."

And for once, it seemed like they were _finally _ready to work together.


	6. Chapter 6

_** We apologize that this took so long. We had a hard time with this chapter and didn't want to put it up until we knew that it was as ready as it ever would be. We hope that you enjoy it! And have a very happy Thanksgiving everyone!**_

Chapter 6

{Claire}

Claire had arrived home around noon after her breakfast with Sherlock on the insistence from the Detective Inspector that she rest before coming back to the Yard. And of course, she hadn't been happy… not at first.

The moment she had stepped through her front door, locked it, and thrown her coat down by the rack, she had stumbled to her living room and fallen asleep on the couch.

And now, that bout of much needed and much appreciated sleep was being interrupted by the most irritating _buzzing_.

_Buzzzzzzz_. _Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzzzz_.

"SHUT UP!" She shouted, still half asleep, hurling a pillow blindly toward the front entryway. After another moment, blessedly, the buzzing stopped. When she concluded that she would no longer be interrupted if she went back to sleep, Claire sighed happily and snuggled back into the warm portion of the couch with her eyes still closed.

Just as she was in the throes of sleep once more, her mobile began to ring. Claire could hear it from where she lay and remembered after a moment of groggy hesitation that she had tossed her bag down with her coat upon entering her flat.

Groaning, Claire shoved her body into a sitting position and leaped up before storming toward the sound. She dug through her bag before she found her mobile, which she was strongly considering burning to a crisp, and hardly bothered to check the Caller ID before yanking it to her ear and answering.

"_What_?" She growled, and though she sounded as if she'd obviously been asleep, a lingering note of warning penetrated the air as the word left her mouth, letting the mystery caller know that she was in no mood to be trifled with.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demanded, obviously aggravated. "I've been ringing your bell for the past fifteen minutes."

"Well, _excuse_ me." Claire huffed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Some of us need sleep."

"You're awake now." He said. "Open the door."

"Go home, Sherlock." Claire told him, eying the front door in annoyance. "Unless you have coffee and a bloody good excuse for knocking down my door hardly…" she checked the time swiftly, "three _hours_ after I left you, then I'm not moving an inch."

Sherlock let out a long, overly-dramatic groan and Claire could just imagine him rolling his eyes and looking skyward, as if to ask the heavens why she was the curse of his existence. "Fine. Meds weren't for PTSD. And, yes. Coffee, extra cream and no sugar."

Claire hesitated for a moment. She had been planning on sending Sherlock home, no matter what he said. And she had every right to! She was exhausted, irritated, but now she was also curious.

So, she hung up the phone and walked to the door before opening it the tiniest crack to make sure Sherlock was where he said he was. When she discovered him standing toward the street, his back to her, she pulled the door open the rest of the way so as to catch his attention.

When he turned to her empty handed, Claire felt a scowl form on her face, screwing up her features in annoyance.

"You never had coffee, did you?"

"Of course not." Sherlock scoffed, breezing past her before she could react. "I'm not your errand boy."

"No, you're an _arse_." Claire muttered under her breath, closing the door behind him with a little more force than necessary. She didn't know what she had expected – maybe it had been that she was still so disoriented from her short nap that she had deluded herself into thinking that Sherlock was capable of being thoughtful.

Idiot.

Claire sighed and meandered back into the living room to find Sherlock settling into one of her armchairs, looking irritatingly at ease. Actually, he seemed more indifferent than anything and, to Claire, that was worse than anything.

"What do you think you're doing?" She asked him, crossing her arms over her chest in an attempt to keep herself from trying to yank him out of her chair.

"Sitting." Sherlock stated, blinking several times. "You should too."

Claire was _burning_; him telling her to sit down in her own home! Imagine! No invitation, no indication from Claire that she even wanted him to stay, and there he was _lounging_ in her living room.

"Look, you've got about ten seconds to tell me what kind of meds were in that bottle before I kick you out. Got it?"

Sherlock hummed in the back of his throat, obviously happy to be irritating _her_ for once. "Night terrors, treated by a medicine called Clonazepam." He told her after another moment of uneasy silence. "It's obvious that Mr. Sullivan lied to Ms. Smith. There is no effective way to treat PTSD, nothing that's known as of yet. And there was no _psychiatrist_, not a licensed one."

"Hurry it up." Claire ushered him, trying to maintain her severity, but her mind was reeling. She had doubted the medicine was manufactured specifically for those who suffered from PTSD, but Clonazepam was cutting it very close. PTSD was classified as a common anxiety disorder by anyone's standards – developing after exposure to a particularly traumatic event, such as warfare. Claire could see how easy it would be for Cal to lie to Olivia about his medicine. But why would he, if they were only for night terrors?

"The psychiatrist in question was, in fact, Mr. Arthur Pace. He was receiving proper treatment for _his _night terrors and slipping a good portion of his medication to Mr. Sullivan for a few extra pounds." Sherlock told her flatly. "It seems our _victim_ was a junkie."

"A junkie…" Claire mused. "Then how was his name on the bottle? The label was in his name. Not Arthur's."

"Staged." The consulting detective fired off an answer with such speed that Claire wondered how he even had the time to think about it. "It was obvious to Mr. Sullivan that should he be caught taking medicine that was neither prescribed nor authorized to be in his possession, it could have been detrimental."

"No doubt." Claire agreed. "But why lie? Why not just call it what it was instead of telling his girlfriend that it was for PTSD?"

"I suspect that it was easier for her to swallow – a returning soldier consumed with anxiety to the point that he needed medicine to get him through the day. However, when I spoke to her for a second time and asked her about Mr. Sullivan's sleeping habits after returning, she made the comment that he never slept fitfully. He was always still – always calm. And that was _before_ the medicine." Sherlock brought his hands together under his chin thoughtfully. "In fact, I doubt that this medicine has anything to do with the concrete value of this case. A junkie is a junkie. And a junkie receiving his fix from a friend… a friend who served with him in the Army, who stood by him when death was everywhere…"

"A suicide pact, maybe?" Claire blurted, beginning to pace.

"No. Too simple." Sherlock rose from the armchair and joined her in their roundabout, mechanical dance throughout the room, both of them too lost in thought to pay attention to the other.

After another moment of silence, gears still whirring in both their minds, the two detectives came to a stop and met each other's gaze.

"Three murders. All in the Army." Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back. "All strangulations of which were inflicted post mortem. All victims were reported to be friends. They were all connected. But _how_? Other than Mr. Pace and Mr. Sullivan meeting for their weekly 'appointments', none of the soldiers were in contact after returning home."

Claire's brows furrowed. "Wait, how do you know all of this?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, the makings of a smirk beginning to dance across them. "While you were sleeping, your _friend_ came through with the files. I read them, retained them, and came to get you."

"D'you have them with you?"

"Didn't need them." He said and then tapped the side of his head. "It's all up here."

"Well, great for you, _pal_." Claire remarked dryly, her irritation back and stronger than ever. "But I'm no mind reader. And so I'm three steps behind in areas that I absolutely shouldn't be. So instead of trying to show off, how about you catch me up."

Sherlock sighed heavily, rolling his eyes at her before staring at her in a way that made her think that she was once again irritating him… which made her happier than it should have. "Get your things." He told her.

"Why?"

"For Heaven's sake, woman." Sherlock muttered, skirting past her without an explanation. "Do you question _everything_ I say?"

Claire imitated his earlier gesture and rolled her eyes skyward, wondering how she had ever managed to fall this far. At least in her desk job, she'd had dreams – ambitions. Now that she had achieved them, they seemed more like burdens than anything that was ever capable of making her happy. Well, they would, if Sherlock weren't a part of the deal.

Sighing to herself, she followed Sherlock's order to get her things, though she did it whilst unceremoniously remarking on his eccentricities while he was still in earshot. When there was no protest coming from Sherlock, she realized that he was ignoring her and Claire couldn't figure out why that only made her angrier.

"Where are we going?"

"_I_ am going to follow a lead." Sherlock remarked as she locked the door to her flat. "_You_ may sit in the car until I have need of you."

"If this is your way of getting back at me for falling asleep, I'm _not_ going to apologize for being _human_." Claire snapped, obviously ruffled. "And this is _our_ case. Not yours. So stop being an arse and give me the files."

"I told you already, _Ms. Bennett_, that I didn't have them."

"Does it really look like I'm in the mood for your crock?" Claire knew she should calm down – that even though she had every right to be upset, it would only end up giving him more satisfaction. "If you don't have them, take me by base so that I can pick them up. It'll save me from talking to you on the way to 'follow your lead'."

Sherlock seemed to consider her words as they piled in a cab, Claire fuming while he was quiet and calculating. "Alright." He said finally. "I'll get you the files and you can stay out of my way."

"_Or_ I could do my job and you could take me to get the files anyway." Claire suggested, her kindness being heavily exaggerated. "But, really, that's just a thought."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sunk down into the backseat, mumbling something that Claire didn't quite catch. She supposed she was grateful she didn't hear it, seeing as how she already wanted to strangle him.

This situation was already more than less than ideal, but Claire (though still incredibly irritated) was actually finding that she enjoyed Sherlock's company to a certain degree. Or maybe she was deluding herself so that she didn't run screaming back to her desk job. Claire knew one thing, however, and it was that she would never let someone as inconsequential as Sherlock Holmes get to her. He wouldn't stand in the way of her dreams, of her aspirations. No way.

Claire, glancing at Sherlock one last time before realizing that he was going to leave them sitting in the car with no destination while the meter was running, smirked. And without waiting for Sherlock's permission, she leaned toward the front seat.

"Scotland Yard, please."


End file.
